


Cruel as Winter

by MapleleafCameo



Series: Fairy Tales [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fairy Tale Retellings, Multi, Nothing to do with Frozen, Retirementlock, The Snow Queen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Fairy Tale of Epic proportions. Based on The Snow Queen by H. C. Anderson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Endings and Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> The story you are about to read is based upon Hans Christian Anderson’s remarkable story The Snow Queen. I originally published it on October 6, 2012 on Fanfiction (it is finished there but is in need of some editing, so you might as well read it here:D. When the story is taking place at the home of the Grandfather it is written in present tense. In the telling of the tale it is written in past. This is deliberate:) John is named Da, because that was my Yorkshire Grandfather's name:D

_The story starts at the end. So do not fear, my children. As you can see our heroes made it home safely and have lived not quiet lives and perhaps not happily ever after, but there has always been surprises and excitement and laughter and of course love in all its shapes and forms. To start at the end is not giving away the story, for the story has not yet been told. There will still be surprises and excitement and laughter and of course love in all it shapes and forms. So sit back and listen. I will take you to a small cottage somewhere in England. Two men sit in front of a fire. That is how the story starts:_

 

Two men sit in front of fire on a cold winter’s day. One tall and thin, hair more white than the black it used to be, still curly and once again in need of a haircut. This one reads a book. A Christmas present. A book about bees. He thinks there can never be enough books about bees. The other man slumbers in the chair facing. He is shorter, stockier, his hair is completely white, but in the gleam from the fire, he can pretend that it is once more the blonde of their first meeting. He scoffs at his foolish thoughts, but as they reach near the end of their lives, he finds sentiment, especially regarding his husband, creeping into his mind a great deal. Occasionally he glances at the sleeper, affection clear on his face. He worries about him. The cold saps his husband's strength and old wounds from a reckless youth and an unquiet army life are acting up, robbing him of precious strength. Arthritis has settled into the kind, caring hands. Even at their age there is some stirring of old longings as he remembers exactly what those hands are capable of. Perhaps later, after the end of the Holidays, when company leaves, if he can get their bedroom warm enough. The hint of a smirk plays about his lips.

 

The aforementioned company suddenly barges into the room, coming in from playing in the snow. “Da, Da, Papa,” shout two fair-haired children, a boy and a girl of 11 and 9. The girl is yelling louder than the boy, who is usually more serious, a miniature of the formerly sleeping man. He has woken with a start at the sound of his grandchildren. The boy gravitates toward his grandfather. And even though he is the older and even though he is reaching the age where a young man starts to be more reserved in his affections, he loves his Da very much and the reserve falls as he throws his arms around the man.

 

“You are cold, m’boy. Give me your hands and I’ll warm them.”

 

The boy shakes his head, “No Da, your hands are bothering you today. I don’t want to hurt them.”

 

The first man’s eyes gleamed. He knew that this young boy could have been cloned from his grandfather, so a like they were in mannerisms and kindnesses and looks. He has no doubt that the boy would grow to be just like his grandfather. He will go into medicine and perhaps join the army.

 

The girl meanwhile found her way onto her favourite perch, that of the first's lap. There were four people he loves without question. He loves no others. He loves the other man unreservedly and with his whole heart. He would and had died for him. He loves the daughter of the man’s other marriage. The man had married and lost a woman while the taller man had been thought dead. The taller man had been surprise to return to the other in possession of a fiery tempered three year old, who apparently took after her mother. The love of the girl for him and his for her had been hard fought for, but now there was genuine affection between them.

 

And he loves the two small children in front of him. In the deepest recesses of his heart he would admit that he loved the girl a little bit more than the boy. She had captured his attention and fascination from the moment of her birth. She had been one of the few, except perhaps her grandfather, who had not had to fight for his affection. She had always come to him first, even before her mother, when saddened or hurt or for cuddling just because.

 

The girl snuggles into her Papa’s arms, but turns her head toward her Da. “Da, tell us a story, please?” She still retains the hint of a lisp.

 

The grandfather pretends to be startled by this. He had been prepared all day for this request. His grandchildren would end each visit with the telling of a tale. The girl prefers,

 

“Fairy tale please, Da.”

 

While the boy wanted,

 

“No, adventure, Da. One about you and Papa.”

 

Their grandfather glances at his husband. A look passes between them. There aren’t many tales about their adventures that are suited for small ears. There are a few however. He deems the children old enough to hear one in particular. His partner concurs silently.

 

“How about I tell you a tale that is both?”

 

The boy scoffs momentarily. He does not want to appear to be interested in fairy tales. That is for his sister. But he is intrigued. He does feel, however, that it is his duty to point out that there are no such things as fairies and magic. There is a small part of him that has hopes that it might still be true, that magic exists in the world, despite that.

 

The grandfather looks at the boy in his lap and explains, “Let us say that this tale has elements of fairy tales in it.”

 

“Magic?” asks the girl, excitedly.

 

“Perhaps,” he smiles his gentle smile that still causes his husband’s heart to race.

 

“Witches?” she asks again.

 

“Most definitely,” replies the other with a smirk in their grandfather’s direction.

 

“Please tell me there won’t be a captured princess,” groans the boy.

 

“How ‘bout a prince? Would that be better,” says Da, his grin becoming wider.

 

“John" A quiet warning.

 

John grunts a little, “A prince to me,” he mutters low enough that the other is the only one to hear.

 

A rare genuine smile plays upon his face as he continues to hug the girl.

 

“Okay, let’s see. How to begin?” says John.

 

“Once upon a time,” informs the girl with all seriousness.

 

“Quite correct,” says the man on whose lap she is perched.

 

“Alright then. Once upon a time there were two men sharing a flat together in London One was a mild mannered, unassuming doctor who was much put upon by the other.”

 

There was an almost audible rolling of eyes amongst all assembled.

 

“The other man was a great detective, solver of mysteries, but in this story he is the one who was part of the mystery. It was up to the good doctor to figure out what had happened and without the help of his best friend.”

 

The two children settled into the laps of the men, drawn into the superb story telling skills of their grandfather.

 

“One day the doctor came home from doing the shopping…”

 

 


	2. In Which the Snow Queen Arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention I don’t own – but you probably know that – don’t own Sherlock, don’t own Snow Queen - that’s just sad. Nope, owned and created by ACD, BBC, HCA. Some of the words have been borrowed from The Snow Queen, in particular the tale of the demon glass – I am only playing with them and will gratefully return them to their rightful owner when I am done.
> 
> I might actually have a story here where there’s no swearing. Huh – weird.

_Are you settled? Do you have a cozy afghan? Or drawn up to the fire? Cup of tea? Good. Let’s begin the telling of the tale._

 

It was a very cold, winter’s day. The skin on John’s face tingled and the inside of his nose crinkled from the sharpness of the air. It made him feel like sneezing. The snow was gently falling from a steely, gray sky. Not little flakes, but enormous ones. Ones that are miniature snowballs in and of themselves and were really a dozen flakes joined together to form large, wet clumps. John was walking back with the shopping. He lowered his head to try to keep the snow out of his eyes. The wind was down and it was quiet for London, quiet enough he could actually hear the flakes hitting the ground. The windows of the buildings he walked past were frosted over, making designs that seem to spell coded messages or perhaps hieroglyphics. Sherlock would not approve of such fancies, but John didn’t care. He was happy and content. He liked winter and had missed the snow while in Afghanistan. He wasn’t fond of extreme cold, however, and it was rather surprising the closer he got to home the colder it became. He was beginning to feel rather like an icicle by the time he fished his keys out of his jacket pocket.

 

As he approached his place of residence, he was interested to see a large, expensive looking car pulled up on the street in front of the flat. He wouldn’t normally be surprised to see a car like that in front of Baker Street. Mycroft often stopped by to pay a call or demand a favour. But this was different. Mycroft’s car was not as large and it was black. This car was white, so white in fact it almost made the snow falling against it look dingy.

 

Must be a client.

John was glad that there might finally be a new case. His flatmate had been bored unto death with a lack of cases and it was making him more than a little crazy. So far nothing had blown up or been set on fire, but you never knew what might come next when said flatmate was the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes. _Always prepare for the worst_ was a motto John was learning to live by.

 

John entered the building in which he lived. He had no sooner set foot in the front entry when he was accosted by dear Mrs. Hudson. She came scurrying up to him and pulled him aside to whisper in his ear.

 

“Sherlock has a new client. But there’s something funny about her. Dr. Watson, please do your best to make sure he doesn’t take this case. She seems…strange and cold, so very cold. When I looked into her eyes, it seemed as if she would freeze my very heart.” She patted the good doctor’s arm. “I don’t think she’s quite human either.”

 

John looked quizzically at his landlady, not his housekeeper. He gave her a quick hug and said, “Never fear Mrs. Hudson. I’m sure if her case isn’t interesting Sherlock won’t take it. Between you and me however he really needs a case.”

 

“Yes, dear I know, but better to consort with someone who is not so evil as she is. You mark my word. No good can come of hanging around with the likes of her.” She left the doctor more bemused than when he entered. John mentally shrugged and climbed the stairs to the flat. It grew noticeably colder the higher he climbed.

 

He slowly opened the door to the kitchen and tried to unobtrusively listen to the conversation coming from the living room. He didn’t approve of eavesdropping and tried not to do it himself, but he felt he needed to get an idea of what he might be getting into in order to be better prepared to face a new and possibly dangerous adversary. He seemed to come in on the middle of a conversation.

 

A low and cultured female voice was speaking. Her voice, while beautiful, still sent shivers up John’s spine and his instincts were clambering for his attention.

 

“…and so the demons made a magic mirror. It would cause what ever was reflected in it to appear warped and ugly, but it also revealed the real nature of the object or person. It could show hidden truths. But the demons were foolish. They tried to take it up to heaven to view the angels and they dropped it. The mirror shattered into a thousand fragments and the fragments blew around the world. Some landed in people’s eyes, splinters of glass that made everything wicked and bad become more visible and every little fault plainly seen. And they were able to see the truth of those they looked at, but some landed in people’s hearts and caused their heart to turn to ice and for them to become cold and distant and emotionless. Is that like you Mr. Holmes? Do you have pieces of the demon glass in your eyes or perhaps in your heart? Is that why you are so clever and so distant?”

 

John was astonished that Sherlock was listening to this. It sounded like a story or some other sentimental nonsense. He was expecting Sherlock to rise up from his chair and tell the woman to leave, stop such foolishness and not to further waste his time. But when he heard the rumble of Sherlock’s deep baritone, smug and almost flirtatious at the same time, it left him feeling confused and uneasy.

 

“My dear woman, what an interesting story. I have no doubt that some people would assume that such a thing, if it were indeed possible, had indeed happened to me. What a fanciful notion. I am sure that those who are jealous would prefer an alternative explanation like that rather than believe I had studied and worked to do what I do.”

 

John slowly came out of the kitchen. He really could not be more astonished than he already was, but he was proven wrong when he took in the sight that met him in the living room.

 

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, his hands folded in their customary thinking position. Before him on the floor at his feet sat a beautiful woman, perhaps one of the most beautiful women John had ever seen. Not necessarily because of her looks, but because of her bearing and confidence. She was regal and aloof.

 

She was small, petite, certainly if she had been standing in bare feet she would have been shorter than John. Everything about her was white; her porcelain skin, her dress, which showed off her long graceful arms, the coat of ermine fur that had been carelessly tossed to the floor. All was white save her hair, which was the colour of a crow’s wing and her shoes which were black with bright red soles and the blood red lipstick that brought out her full mouth. John was as momentarily enchanted as Sherlock appeared to be. But then he remembered the coldness in her tone and when she turned to appraise him, standing there in his shabby sweater and jeans, the look in her eyes was as cold and as bottomless as sinking into a snowdrift. He knew there would be no tranquility or comfort in her glance. There was also something predatory about her, something that was made of all things cruel and cunning.

 

John then glanced at his friend and his heart sank. For the first time since John had known Sherlock he saw that he was intrigued with a woman, but not just because she was a client. There was a look in his eyes that John had never seen before. Sherlock was smitten. Was he intrigued because of the attention she was paying him? Perhaps not, for others had paid attention to Sherlock and he had either ignored them or sent them scrambling with unkind words. Was it her beauty? No that was ridiculous. Beauty did not interest him either, not that way. Perhaps she was clever and quick with words and that is what intrigued his friend. Perhaps.

 

Sherlock suddenly stood and helped her to her feet. She rose gracefully with a smile hovering about her lips. She leaned close to Sherlock and John could just hear her whispered words. “I could kiss you to death, detective.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose and he bent and retrieved her coat. He gallantly held it out to her and she pulled it on.

 

“Oh John. You’re home I see. This is Irene Adler. Ms. Adler, this is John Watson, my blogger and flatmate. Sorry John. Must be off. Ms. Adler and I are flying out tonight to Finland. New case, most intriguing. I should be back in a few weeks. Don’t wait up.” He swept himself into his great coat and they were out the door before John had begun to realise what was happening.

 

As soon as he came to his senses, he ran down the stairs after them. He threw open the front door and dashed onto the sidewalk. But he was too late. The white car had disappeared into the falling snow. The rushing air from the car’s passage caused the snow to fly around like a swarm of bees. As John stood there, in despair at being left behind and dumbfounded by his friend’s abrupt departure, he had a last strange thought.

 

_Sherlock would like that image of the snow flying around like bees._

_oOo_

“But Da,” pipes up a voice from Sherlock’s lap, “you’re not dumb. Even Papa says he’s often surprised by how smart you really are.”

 

“Does he now,” said John, giving Sherlock _the look_. _The look_ is spoiled by a small smile trying to land on John’s lips.

 

Sherlock chuckles quietly in his chair. He lowers his head to the girl’s and gives her a kiss on top of her head. “No my dear, it doesn’t mean dumb as in stupid; it means astonished. He is saying he was surprised. That’s all. Really John, you are getting carried away with your story telling. None of it happened that way. And we didn’t even meet her in winter.”

 

John glares at Sherlock, “Haven’t you heard of atmosphere before? And I’m sure that this is more interesting to the children than the way it really happened and,” here he lowers his voice so that once again only Sherlock can hear, “far more appropriate.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes twinkle at his partner. “True.”

 

“Please, what happened next? And please when does the adventure begin?’ contributes the boy.

 

“Oh the adventure begins next. In fact the next part is called _In which John has an Adventure…”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess the title of this chapter might be misleading – it should have been called John putters around London & falls asleep twice. That is one of the hazards of writing as you go. The chapter shaped up this way to fit in more with the original (you are lucky I didn’t call it John talks to flowers!), but I’m sure there will be adventure at some point – blah!  
> It took me a few days to figure out who Mycroft was in the story – when I did it I was almost surprised.

_Sometimes the telling of the tale diverges from the intended path. Sometimes it is beyond your control. If the teller of the tale changes something or if in actual fact the **tale** changes something, do not be concerned. It is really the same journey, but full of different surprises and mysteries. Are you holding your breath? It will be okay. There are no wolves at the door, but there might be a hobgoblin on the hearth._

At first John wasn’t sure what to do. It wasn’t as if Sherlock hadn’t stated where he was going, if somewhat vaguely. Sherlock was an adult, even if he didn’t act like one most of the time. He was allowed to depart and return without informing his flatmate of his whereabouts. It was unusual for John to not know where Sherlock was, at least to some degree and often with more clarity than an obscure comment like ‘Finland’. It may have narrowed down the location, certainly, but it still left a large amount of land to explore. He waited exactly one hour before he texted Mycroft, hoping that there would be insight into his brother’s odd behavior. Mycroft phoned and said,

 

“John, I understand your concern, but it is not your business or in your best interest to pursue this matter.”

 

And hung up before John could muster a reply.

 

He took to hanging about the Diogenes Club; waiting for Mycroft to inform him it actually was his business. It turned out that Mycroft was a far more patient man than even John had surmised.

 

He braved the attendant to send a note to Mycroft seeking to speak with him. A politely worded ‘Bugger off!’ came back.

 

John finally had enough. It was two weeks since Sherlock had disappeared. The doctor had waited for some indication that Sherlock was alive and well. There was nothing. No texts, no phone calls (since when did the detective ever phone?), no mysterious packages in the night, and no word from Mycroft.

 

He pulled out his best Captain glare and stormed the castle that was the Diogenes Club, and took the staff by surprise. He braced Mycroft in his den in order to have it out with him. He was forcibly removed, having once again broken the code of silence, but at least he was delivered to Mycroft’s private room and not the kerb.

 

The room John was led to was luxurious. There was a merry fire in the fireplace. Tea was waiting to be served in expensive china cups, with an assortment of biscuits ready for consumption. Strangely there was an out of season bowl of cherries in a lovely glass bowl. It sat beside a large vase holding white cherry blossoms intermixed with rhododendrons. John thought the whole arrangement odd and a trifle unsettling and was struck by a stray thought that the flowers were trying to tell him something.

 

Mycroft sat in an overly large chair by the fire, a chair that exuded comfort and class. He gestured imperiously for John to sit. He poured tea for the two of them and pressed John with biscuits. John, not impressed with being ignored by Sherlock’s brother the past two weeks, declined the biscuits. He accepted the tea in order to have something in his hands to keep them occupied and to warm him from the cold, both on the inside and the out.

 

Mycroft smiled a smile that on some level reminded John of Irene Adler’s. There was a hint of frost in it, of calculation and of plans best not disturbed. John was disturbed. It was odd to deal with a Mycroft seemingly not concerned with his brother’s welfare.

 

“John, why do you persist in disrupting plans of which you know nothing? Do you not suppose that there is a reason for Sherlock to be out of touch with you? I appreciate your worry for my little brother, but there are times when your interference is not acceptable. Now is one of them.”

 

John felt a swelling of anger, anger that had been dammed up until now by a tide of rising fear. He carefully put down the delicate cup, afraid that if he didn’t he might very well throw it.

 

“Mycroft, I don’t know what intrigue in which you have entangled Sherlock, but I intend to find out and put a stop to it. You did not see the reaction he had to the woman who was in our flat, this Irene Adler. There was something about her that wasn’t right. She was…dangerous. Sherlock wasn’t himself.”

 

Mycroft smirked. “Do I detect a note of jealousy, my good doctor? Are there perhaps feelings for my brother that you haven’t acknowledged even to yourself? Or is it simply that you were excluded from this little adventure? That he went some place you cannot go.”

 

John bristled. That wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter what John felt. It mattered that Sherlock was not exactly missing, but certainly far enough away that John could not offer him help if he wanted to. And he most certainly wanted to. John stood up and paced the room, aware of the eyes that followed him. He stopped and stood in front of the table with the flowers and the cherries. Out of nerves rather than hunger he picked up a cherry and twisted it in his hand, the stem removed and placed in the pocket of his trousers. He didn’t notice the look of triumph on Mycroft’s face when, without thought, he popped the cherry into his mouth. When he turned to face the man in the chair, Mycroft’s face was as still as a winter pond.

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John, and indicated to him to return to his chair. John sighed and did so.

 

“Mycroft, I am worried about your brother. I don’t know where he is. I need to find him. He could be hurt, he could be dead. He wasn’t in his right mind when he left. Please tell me where he is?”

 

“John, I would give you this information if I knew you truly could help Sherlock, but in this case you cannot. Sherlock is required to be where he is for a reason,” he hesitated as if loathed to admit the next. “There is also the fact that I cannot say for certain where he is.”

John blinked, a shiver running down his spine. “He’s your brother. I would think you would want him to be found.”

 

Mycroft smirked, “Ah, but perhaps you misunderstand the situation. Perhaps I sent Ms. Adler to him for a reason.”

 

John was confused, “No, but…she came to us. Didn’t she?”

 

“Where do you think she got the idea? She has something I want very much and I knew if anyone could get it from her it would be Sherlock. If you go after him or interfere in anyway, it could be detrimental to my brother’s well being and to the necessity of his retrieving the object I require. “

 

John slumped back in his chair, momentarily defeated. He placed his head in his hands and wondered what his next steps should be. He was determined to track Sherlock down with or without Mycroft’s help. It would be easier with and far more dangerous without, especially if it was against Mycroft’s wishes. He leaned back in his chair, suddenly greatly fatigued. He had not had much of what one could call sleep in the last two weeks. Worry interrupted his dreams. He felt his eyelids close of their own accord. He thought he might have heard Mycroft say,

 

“That’s right, my good doctor. Close your eyes. Stay here with me and forget about my little brother. You need not worry for him any longer.”

 

He might have felt fingers combed through his hair and he slipped into a deep slumber.

 

Is there magic in the consumption of a single piece of fruit? Ask Snow White or Persephone what their fate was in the eating.

 

When John awoke, refreshed, back in the flat, he had no memory of the visit with Mycroft. He had no worry. Fear no longer disrupted his thoughts. He did not think about Sherlock. It was as it was suppose to be.

 

For the next few weeks he went about his business not once concerned about the locality of a tall and oddly striking individual who solved crimes with lightening quick thought and callous tongue. He felt something was missed, the way you might long for a familiar story or a favourite jumper, but there was no distress.

 

Mrs. Hudson shot him random looks of concern and unhappiness, but she did not tell John to get off of his arse and go and find the missing detective. She had in fact been reluctantly coached into following Mycroft’s plan under the guise of protecting the doctor.

 

One day, a day that hovered on the edges of spring, John came home. The turn in the weather caused him to root around in the bedroom closet. As he moved hangers and boxes and searched for a lighter jacket, he spotted a soft piece of material carelessly thrown upon the floor. He paused, puzzled. He stooped down to pick it up and pulled it into the light. He found he was holding a soft, blue scarf. He looked at it. Memories and feelings cascaded through his brain.

 

How could he have forgotten?

 

He abruptly sat down on the bed, tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

 

He had spent the last few weeks in oblivion. He now remembered everything, which included the last fateful visit to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft had done this. Mycroft had caused him to leave aside his fears for his dearest friend in the hope that he would not seek him out.

 

John sat there undecided for a few moments, then he stood, pulled out his winter wear again, located their emergency funds and he left the flat determined to not return until he had detective in tow.

 

He began his search in London. He was aware Sherlock had informed him that he traveled to Finland, but perhaps that was a ruse. He decided to speak with the homeless network first. He began with a woman who went by the moniker of Raven.

 

Raven was a former film star. She had been at the height of fame in a series of romantic thrillers, but drugs and alcohol had lead to her downfall and she had lived on the streets of London, until Sherlock had taken care of her and removed her from said streets. Although in her late 50’s and despite the knowledge that life had not been kind, she still held the remains of a rare beauty. It could be seen in her cheekbones and in her carriage. She mysteriously retained some contact with the rich and powerful and if anyone knew the location of Irene Adler, it would be her. Because of her loyalty to Sherlock she could be counted on to keep this information from Mycroft.

 

Using all of the tricks and secret ways Sherlock had shown him, John made his was to Raven’s humble dwellings.

 

Tucked in among the items in the room, there was a small bowl of early flowers on her table, including snowdrops. The sight of the white buds stirred something inside the doctor’s weary soul.

 

“No, my dear doctor,” she said as she entertained him as if she were royalty and he an august visitor. “You are mistaken. I have heard tell that they had been to Finland, but have returned and now reside in the North of England in a mighty castle, where this Adler woman,” and she said it as if it were a venomous thing “lives when she is not casting her spells upon unsuspecting men. Woman too, I have heard. “

 

John sighed, thanked the lady sweetly and started back to Baker Street to pack. He was wondering how he was going to sneak out of London without Mycroft’s knowledge when a police car pulled up beside him. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade climbed out of the vehicle and jogged up to him.

 

“John, I’ve come to warn you. Mycroft Holmes has issued an order requesting you be detained and remanded into his custody.”

 

Despair and rage intermixed in John and fought for dominance. He was not going to let Mycroft hold him back from locating Sherlock. He knew in his heart and soul that his best friend was in terrible danger. The DI must have read some of that on John’s face for he said,

 

“Not to worry,” this was said with a cheeky grin. “I’m here to help you. I’m your friend and Sherlock’s and I’ll fight that pompous arse myself and give him a smack on the ear, if it’s the last thing I do. Get into the car and I’ll drive you out of here. I can’t take you much farther than the edges of the city, but it’s a start.”

 

Lestrade was as good as his word. He drove John out of London and gave him the keys to an unmarked vehicle and some money he’d put aside for him. He promised John he’d do his best to insure that he had at least a few days head start, but after that he’d be on his own.

 

John hugged the DI and with that he left for the North.

 

He drove without pursuit. He wondered vaguely if Mycroft had given up. He found that an unlikely thought, but he shoved it aside for other worries. It seemed the farther North he went the longer the distance, as if the route he travelled was enchanted to prevent him from reaching the side of his friend.

 

He had begun to wonder about the foolishness of his journey when he stopped in a small village. He chanced upon a friendly pub there and he decided to break his journey with a light lunch and perhaps news from the world.

 

A young serving girl, daughter of the owner, delivered his lunch and in the way of residents of small villages the world over discussed with him his reason for travel. He decided to be discrete, so as not to alert Mycroft of his whereabouts. He did however let slip that he searched for a friend.

 

“More than a friend perhaps?” ask the girl, wise for her years.

 

The doctor blushed, use to the speculation from those who knew him in London, could still be surprised that a stranger had read his feelings for the detective as easily.

 

She said nothing further, but as he departed the pub to resume his hunt, she stopped him and with a blush in return she presented him with a small bouquet of flowers. In the mixture were blue violets and forget-me-nots.

 

“For your friend when next you meet. It may be that it will help in some small way.” She then kissed his cheek lightly and disappeared back into the pub.

 

He carefully wrapped the flowers in a handkerchief and placed them in the pocket of his jacket.

 

He travelled farther than he had ever been and the further North he went, the colder it became as if winter had returned just to torment him or perhaps it was more sinister than that. It was on a sad and lonely unnamed road in the middle of the night that the car Lestrade had lent him died, never to run again. John continued his journey on foot. He had been walking less than an hour when an unexpected snowstorm pounced out of nowhere and wrapped the doctor up in icy winds and driving snow. John staggered through as best he could, but he eventually succumbed to the cold and as despair set in he lost consciousness. The last thought he had was of Sherlock.

 

oOo

 

A quiet descends upon the small gathering. The boy notices the tracks of tears upon his grandfather’s cheeks, but it is the girl, who has yet to learn that there are things best left asked at a different times and places, who voices the question.

 

“Da, why are you sad?” She slips off of her Papa’s lap and climbs up on the other knee to share a perch with her brother. She wraps her arms around John’s neck and squeezes with all the love her heart possesses.

 

“Don’t worry! We know you save Papa from the evil snow queen. It wouldn’t be a fairy tale without a happy ending.”

 

John wipes his eyes and chuckles weakly, as the love his grandchildren bear for him breaks through his melancholy thoughts, thoughts brought on by the telling of the tale. “Oh child, I am not worried. I am just remembering other, sadder times. Don’t mind me. When you are as old as I, you too will be easily moved by sentiment.” He glances over at the man who sits in the other chair.

 

Sherlock is well aware the direction John’s thoughts take him. To look at his face one could not tell the maelstrom of emotions that roll beneath the exterior of the former detective, but the eyes addressing his partner overflow with emotion. In the silent communication that has always been a part of the two men, there is once again a conversation of remorse and forgiveness.

 

The concerns of the young do not last long nor do they dwell much past the here and now. The children urge their grandfather to continue the tale.

 

John hastily clears his throat, “The next part my darlings is called, _In which Sherlock tries to Unlock a Puzzle_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very few of the flowers in this chapter actual bloom at the times they would in real life –it’s a good thing this is a fairy tale! There is a chapter in the original story where Gerda talks to the flowers in the garden of the woman who conjures asking if they have seen Kay. In consulting several websites on the language of flowers, this is what I discovered. In the room at the Diogenes Club the vase of flowers hold white cherry blossoms stand for deception, & rhododendrons, danger. The bowl of cherries is referenced from the original story and is in the conjurer’s cottage. Snowdrops at Raven’s home are for hope, and the bouquet given by the young girl contain blue violets for faithfulness and forget-me-nots for true love.


	4. In Which Sherlock Tries to unlock a Puzzle

_My dear children you will find that our story is drawing to a close. Will all of your questions be ask? Even I cannot tell that. I simply present the tale. It is up to you the listener to decide for yourself if you are satisfied with my simple story. Hopefully you have discovered that while we have been travelling along this road we have come full circle. So sit back, finish your tea or perhaps before we start brew a fresh one and we will continue down the path as we wend our way back to the beginning._

Sherlock sat at the foot of Irene Adler’s chair. It was a different scene from months earlier when it had been the reverse and she had sat at his feet. Then she had seemed to be in thrall of the detective’s intellect. Now it appeared that had been a ruse to capture both his interest and the detective. She had some sort of hold over him. Presented with the intricate and challenging puzzles she created for him, which increased in difficulty, he stayed. He had not been bored once.

 

Here was the final puzzle, the one that if he solved, she said, would put him above and beyond her powers. He sat thinking, wondering, striving. For all that he did not like being touched by anybody but one person, he was surprisingly willing to let her run her fingers through his hair as he thought. Hers was not a touch of relaxation. It was a touch that instead of comforting further turned his heart into a lump of ice. She whispered softly into his ear murmured promises and delights, assurances that there would always be challenges for him if he stayed with her. Her voice seduced him and although it was said in a tone that was cold and remote, it connected to a part of him that few understood. It worked upon him and further removed him from all that was not she. He had listened to her over the last few months, whilst thoughts of John and Baker Street grew dim and far away until one day he couldn’t have told you about John or his flat if asked. That was a place of warmth and light, of comforts and home, of tea and wooly jumpers and violins and laughter. Those thoughts were hard to retain in this place of hard edges and coldness, intellect and glittering ice. Baker Street was the colour of brown and red and the soft blue of a summer sky and of the heart. Irene’s home was white and black and the blue grey of winter and of the mind. Sherlock had felt comfortable at first, if one can be comfortable in such environs. It called to his remoteness and helped to hide the feelings that created confusion in him and distracted from the chase and the game. By the time he realized he was missing the other life, the real life, the life he craved under everything Irene promised, it was almost too late.

 

“Solve this last puzzle for me, Sherlock and all that I have shall be yours. Solve this last game with reason and intellect and you shall rule by my side and the world shall be yours.”

 

Sherlock did not know that the last puzzle was one that his brother was trying to keep secret from Irene. That it was this puzzle that Mycroft had wanted Sherlock to return to him.

 

He looked at the puzzle again but the edges of it could not be held together and tumbled through his fingers and his mind. Every time he thought he almost had it, it lost its cohesion once more. He pictured the puzzle as if it were made of chunks of ice and it was very beautiful, but like ice it slipped and slid apart and it would take more than Sherlock wrestling with them to come together. There was something missing, something that he needed to merge the shapes into a joined object.

 

That something was John.

 

oOo

 

The last thought John had before he succumbed to the cold and snow was of Sherlock.

 

The first thought he had upon waking was of Sherlock and where Sherlock was.

 

When he woke, he noticed he was warm and comfortable. He did have aches and pains, particularly in his leg muscles. But here, wherever here was, he was safe and cared for. With sleep heavy eyes, he glanced around the room. There was a fireplace with a blazing fire, which was the only light in the room. The bed was piled high with blankets and quilts.

 

He lay there drowsing, not having the energy to move just at the moment and even though concerns for Sherlock hovered at the edges of his mind, he knew he was not ready to resume a search for his friend. He needed time to recover. From where he lay he could look out a low window. He could see that it was still night and the storm he had been caught in had stopped. He must have come quite far north for he could also see the ripple and flash of the Northern Lights. Beautiful, rich green, blue and gold danced and shimmered, casting strange shadows upon the snow, shadows that looked like armies of men. In his sleepy brain he imagined that they were men who had died in battle and were making their way to a better home, a place to lay down their burdens. There was something about that thought that pulled at his weary body and he wondered if it could be as easy as that. He slipped back into slumber.

 

When he awoke again the light had changed. It was hovering on the rim of dawn. He felt more rested. He slowly sat up. He was not wearing anything underneath the blankets, which caused him to blush as he was a fairly modest man and he wondered who had undressed him and placed him into the bed. He also wondered how they had found him and cared for him enough that there was no damage to his extremities from the cold and snow.

 

As he was engaged in reviewing his condition, he did not notice the handle of the door turn. He did notice the door swing open.

 

A young woman, with auburn hair, entered the room. His immediate thought was this was the woman who had put him to bed and his blush deepened.

 

She turned and the beginning of a smile quirked at the corner of her month, “Fear not. You have nothing I have not seen nor am I interested in. I prefer the company of women. I had to remove your clothing because it was wet. I have nothing in my home that would fit you. Your clothes should be dry by the time you are fed and ready to leave and resume your hunt for your friend.”

 

“How did you know I was looking for someone?” he asked astonished.

 

She smiled “I will explain after you eat. My name is Kate, by the way.”

 

“John. John Watson.”

 

She replied, “Yes, I know.”

 

She came into the room with a laden try. The tray held a bowl, some bread, water and tea. John’s stomach grumbled when the scent of the contents of the bowl hit his nose. It smelled heavenly. The young woman placed the tray upon a bedside table and help John to sit up. She pilled pillows behind him and wrapped a spare blanket across his shoulders. She then placed the tray on his lap. The bowl held a delicious looking stew, rich and full of pieces of fish and vegetables. John began spooning the stew into his mouth and felt the warmth trickle into his stomach.

 

The young woman pulled up a chair beside John’s bed and watched as he ate. He finished the bread and soup, complimented her on her cooking and lay back against his pillows while he drank his tea.

 

She took the tray from his lap and laid it back upon the table. She then sat back down and began her tale. John noticed while she spoke that her face grew more sad and shadowed.

 

“Before Sherlock Holmes was made known to Irene Adler, I was her constant companion and I believed the love of her life. When she became aware of Mr. Holmes, she left everything else behind her including me. She had never cast me aside before and had never replaced me no matter the person or object that had caught her fancy. I followed her here and set myself up in this house hoping she would grow bored of Mr. Holmes and I would be there to return to her side. In the beginning I believed this to be some sort of game for her. I think at least, it had started out that way, but now she is as consumed with him as he is with her. I know you are following him because I recognize you from before. We received pictures of the two of you with the proposal to entertain and distract Mr. Holmes from an unknown source. We were then given another offer from Mr. Holmes’ brother to visit Mr. Holmes and see if he could solve a puzzle for his brother. I think his brother wanted the puzzle itself to be taken from Ms. Adler. But Ms. Adler is smarter than most, for all that she plays dangerous games with people’s lives and thoughts. She was aware that the other Mr. Holmes was using them both for his own purposes. But now,” and she sighed sadly, “Now she cares for nothing but Mr. Holmes.”

 

John looked thoughtful for a moment and then spoke to Kate, “But why? Why does she do this to him when she cares for no other? Sorry, when she has cared for no other but you?”

 

“They are similar creatures and she has always been attracted to anyone who is intelligent. She usually leaves them when they become boring and dull. That has not happened this time.”

 

‘”So where are they?”

 

“In Ms. Adler’s castle on the frozen lake. She named it The Lake of Reason. I know a way into the castle, but I insist you take me with you. I need to see her again and convince her to take me back.” Her expression turned wistful. “I love her.”

 

“When can we go?”

 

She smiled again, “Whenever you are dressed.”

 

In a short time the two were ready. John borrowed some mitts and a hat to cross the snow swept fields and the frozen lake. Kate was dressed more warmly. As he stepped out of the cottage he noticed that through some strange magic they were standing at the Roof of the World, a place owned by no one country or no one land. The place was barren and of plant or animal life there was no sign except for the two of them. In the distance there could be seen the abode of the person who John had taken to call in his mind The Snow Queen.

 

The two headed out and in a short time they came up to the castle. Kate found the entrance and they made their way to the main room where they found Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes still in the same positions as described earlier.

 

John’s heart constricted at the state of his friend. He was blue with cold and seemed oblivious to all around him except the touch of Irene Adler.

 

He swallowed and whispered Sherlock’s name, softly.

 

Kate stilled beside him and let John lead.

 

John gathered his considerable courage and marched straight to where the pair was sitting.

 

Irene looked up and a pitiless smile graced her face. “Ah look, dear Sherlock. Your friend has shown up at last. Here to save the Detective, Dr. Watson? I’m afraid you may be too late, for I have made him mine.”

 

John ignored the barbs sent his way by the Adler woman and directed his pleas toward Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock? It’s me, John. I’ve been searching for you. I’ve come to take you home.”

 

John’s supplication fell unheard, for Sherlock held nothing in his mind at that moment except the puzzle. He was manipulating the air in front of him, his hands in a graceful dance as he sorted through every piece of information Irene had given him towards unlocking the answer.

 

John stepped closer, ignoring the look of distrust thrown his way by The Snow Queen. He knelt on the ground beside his friend.

 

“Sherlock, please, come away with me. I’ve missed you. You need to come home!”

John didn’t notice the tears that rolled down his face and froze half way down his cheeks.

 

Nothing

 

John slumped back wondering how to make Sherlock hear him. He felt despair enter his heart. Perhaps being in the same room with this woman was causing him to freeze as surely as Sherlock himself. He placed his hands in the pocket of his coat and his fingers brushed what was contained within. He barely remembered stopping at the little pub. Was that only a few days ago?

 

He pulled out the bouquet of flowers and looked down at them.

 

Forget-Me-Knots and violets.

 

He glanced at Sherlock and held the bouquet out to his flatmate hoping that this small touch of spring would thaw his friend’s indifference.

 

At first there was no change in the expression of the man before him. And a tiny frown appeared and Sherlock’s hands faltered in their movement. He looked more carefully at the offering.

 

He reached out his hand and carefully brushed the tops of the flowers. The frown deepened and he finally, _finally_ glanced up at John.

 

He looked at him, bewilderment evident on his face.

 

“Do I know you? I seem to remember something about tea and violin music.”

 

John smiled, relief filling his heart. “Yes, Sherlock. It’s me. John.”

 

“John,” he whispered.

 

“John?” a little louder.

 

“John!” a shout of joy.

 

At that moment, that moment suspended in timelessness, in eternity, the lump of ice that had been Sherlock’s heart melted and he threw his arms around his friend and pulled him close. Both were crying tears of joy and sorrow, of having been separated and of reuniting. And in that precious moment Sherlock’s sight cleared and the puzzle he had been trying to solve for Irene, fell into place.

 

That was not the only one. In that instant, he unlocked the bigger, grander, more earthshattering puzzle that contained his feelings for John and he truly saw him clearly, for the first time. Saw how much he needed and depended upon his friend, realized how he could not go on without him.

 

In that same moment Irene’s power over Sherlock broke. Knowing she had been defeated and outmaneuvered, she felt sadness and fear for the first time in her life and she realized what she could have had if she had been honest both with herself and with Sherlock all along. With the breaking of the spell upon Sherlock came the breaking of her own cold heart. It shattered into a million pieces.

 

Kate ran up to her and gathered her into her arms and wept. She turned to the two men and said.

 

“It will be okay. I will take care of her and heal her.”

 

John looked at Sherlock and Sherlock looked back and John said one word, one word that encompassed layers of meaning.

 

“Home?”

 

Sherlock answered with the same warm and wonderful word.

 

“Home.”

 

oOo

 

“And Sherlock and John travelled back to Baker Street where they lived for many years happy and content. And the Snow Queen? Well my dears, they say she was healed and made whole again, but is still out there and if you are not careful and do not treasure what you have, then on cold winter nights she may come for you yet.”

 

There is a still moment at the ending of the tale when both children hold their breaths and let the magic of the tale permeate their thoughts and with a sigh of satisfaction, they grin at one another.

 

“That was brilliant,” whispers the girl.

 

The boy, clamps down on his feelings once again, not wanting to stay for long in a world of fantasy and make believe, “It was alright, I guess.” He shrugs self-consciously.

 

Their Papa, looks at him with amused indignation, “Alright? Alright? My dear boy what do they teach you in school these days. John, you really should ask your daughter. The education system is sadly neglecting this boy’s imagination.”

 

John chuckles quietly and glances over to the couch where the parents of the children had crept in quietly to hear the tale.

 

“Well, my children, it looks like your parents are ready to take you home.”

 

After that there was hugs and goodbyes and promises of ‘see you soon’ and ‘yes, we will call’ and just before the commotion left the house the boy stands up on tiptoes and whispers in his grandfather’s ear.

 

“Da, that was really the best story. Will you tell it again sometime?”

 

And John smiles a smile reserved just for the boy before him, the boy who is entering on the cusp of manhood.

 

“Anytime you wish, my boy.” And he hugs and kisses the boy tenderly, glad there was still something of the mystery of the child in him and that the boy was not quite ready to let it go.

 

The two men stand at the window and watches the little family leave and after they return to their places by the fire, lost in the remembrances of their lives together, secure in the knowledge of their love, treasuring what they have.

 

The End


End file.
